


Held on as Tightly (as You Held on to Me)

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Jealousy, Post-Canon, Season/Series 04 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-10 20:30:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13509225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: It’s obvious and annoying and above all, inconvenient. Sure, it’s been six years, but he and Clarke have always been a unit of sorts. The thought of someone else— someone he actively dislikes— trying to fit himself into their space chafes against him.“Relax tiger,” Madi smirks, handing him a skewer of charred, unidentifiable meat. “She still likes you best, you know.”He snaps out of his reverie, scowling. From here, he can just make out Clarke standing by the bonfire, lost in animated conversation with he-who-must-not-be-named. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”Or: Clarke acquires a new shadow when Eligius lands down on earth. Bellamy handles it spectacularly well, naturally.





	Held on as Tightly (as You Held on to Me)

**Author's Note:**

> hi my name is emily and I really, really adore jealousy fics, that is ALL.

The second time Bellamy comes back down to earth, it’s to considerably more fanfare than he expects.

He senses it, before anything else— the shift in the air when he steps out of the pod, the familiar  _ click  _ of multiple weapons being loaded. There’s barely any time for him to react before there’s a gun trained right at him, the luminescent glow flaring bright against his chest.

(For a second, it’s all he can do not to stare, because right there, just through the trees, are  _ people.  _ People other than Murphy and Raven and the same faces of the past six years. They’re here. They  _ exist _ .

They’re also about three seconds away from putting a bullet through him, but still.)

“Bellamy? What’s going on?”

Swearing, he reaches for his radio with exaggerated slowness, making sure to keep one arm raised above his head in what he hopes passes as a conciliatory gesture. “Stay in the pod, Harper.”

“But—”

He flicks the dial, switching it off. Distantly, he thinks he can make out someone emerging from the trees, their footfalls gaining in volume with each second. Reflexively, he tenses, bracing himself—

Just as the figure comes into view, and his breath catches instinctively at the glint of gold, at a familiar stance because it can’t be, it’s not possible, and yet there’s no mistaking it.

It’s  _ Clarke. _

She’s thinner than before, her hair short enough now that it brushes against her jaw with each step. Her hands are steady on her gun, though, shoulders back and feet planted, and he smiles despite himself because  _ goddamn _ if the sight of it doesn’t bring him back to another time, to another memory long buried.

He lets his arm fall back down to his side, a disbelieving noise escaping. She can’t seem to tear her eyes away from him either, if the way she’s looking at him is any indication. Her mouth goes slack as she takes him in, eyes widening as she takes another step closer.

“Bell?”

His knees go a little weak at the sound of it— of  _ her  _ voice, saying his name, just the way he imagined in those lonely years up in space. “The one and only,” he tells her, clearing his throat in an effort to keep himself together. It’s futile, considering the way his voice breaks when he tells her, “Nice form, princess.”

She drops the gun, exhaling shakily. “I had a good teacher.”

“That must be it,” he says absently, letting his gaze rove over her once more. There’s a kind of hardness to her now that wasn’t there before, messy red streaks in her hair that makes him chuckle. Still, he recognizes the tilt of her mouth, the softening of her gaze when her eyes meet his. That’s Clarke, right there. His best friend, his confidant, his  _ person.  _ The girl who had burst into his life with all the force of a meteoroid, blazing and burning and fleeting, leaving him cold and waiting and  _ missing  _ her, after. He clears his throat, snapping out of his reverie. “What are you doing—”

His arms go out instinctively when she collides into him, the rest of his words dissolving into a watery laugh when she grapples at his shoulders, pulling him closer. It’s overwhelming and not enough, all at once, and he has to close his eyes at the feeling threatening to pull him under.

“I missed you,” she whispers, and he tightens his grip on her involuntarily, feeling her sway slightly in his arms— trusting him to hold her up, even after everything. “I thought about you, every day, and— god, you have no idea how much, Bellamy.”

(He thinks about the hollowness in his chest when they landed; the way nothing about earth makes him feel the way he does now, right in Clarke’s arms. Safe and protected and  _ home,  _ beyond anything.)

“Trust me,” he tells her, closing his eyes once more. “I think I do.”

  
  


+

She brings him up to speed within the next few hours, knee-deep in rubble whilst working at the piles of debris scattered around them.

There’s Madi, and the people in the bunker, and surviving the radiation on her part. She tells him about learning how to fish, too, and about the lakes that turned purple and the sunsets that leave trails of green in the air, like comet tails. He tells her about space, in return: about Monty’s algae and Raven’s radio and Murphy teaching him all the card games there are to learn on the Ark.

(And it’s funny, he can’t help but think, because somehow or the other, they always end up in the same place: taking it upon themselves to look after others, to live for them. Six years apart and separated by an entire fucking galaxy and somehow, they ended up right where they began.)

“Then there’s Eligius,” she says, at his questioning glance over to the loose ring of people by the back, heads bent and busy muttering amongst themselves. “They came down two months ago. I told them about the situation with the bunker, and the supplies that they had down there. Needless to say, they were a little more helpful after that.” 

He pauses, considering it. “And you trust them?”

“About as far as I can throw them,” she says grimly, the edges of her lips quirking up into the smallest of smiles.

It’s a welcome sight as much it is a familiar one, and he finds himself grinning back despite himself, wide and  _ stupid.  _ “I don’t know, princess,” he says, clearing his throat. “Maybe six years out in the wilderness gave you super strength.”

“Well, clearly six years up in space didn’t give you a better sense of humor, so I’m not holding my breath.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I am,” she teases, dusting her hands off against her jeans and leaving smear marks in its wake. For a second, she looks like she might want to say something else to that, but something on his left catches her eye instead, her brows drawing together quizzically. “Hey, toss that over to this pile,” she says. “I think Raven might be able to repurpose that into something we can actually use.”

It’s a sheet of scrap metal, so badly scratched and dented that he can barely make out his reflection in it. “You know,” he says, with the pointed arch of her brow, “I’m pretty sure even Raven has her limits.”

That pulls a frown out of her, the expression almost obstinate. “It’s not  _ that  _ bad.”

“That’s like saying what happened to Pompeii wasn’t that much of a disaster.”

She drops into a crouch, fingers curling around the edges. “Just come help me with this already.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he grumbles, hesitating for all of three seconds before relenting anyway. Huffing, he grabs at the sheet, lifting slightly. “Ready.”

“Okay so, on my count, we lift, and—”

The metal jerks under their hold, the movement sending a cloud of dust swirling up in the air, and there’s a split-second when he thinks,  _ Clarke should probably move  _ before the dust settles, leaving him blinking it out of his eyes irritably and swearing under his breath.

Still, he’s pretty sure he fares better than her.

“Don’t you dare,” she says, her voice wobbling dangerously. He gives an unattractive snort at that, the effort of holding back a laugh making his shoulders shake, and he can feel her glare despite the layers of  _ dust  _ caking her face. “This is— oh,  _ shut up. _ ”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to,” she snaps, swatting at his arm when he laughs, falling back on his ass. “Oh, screw you, Bellamy. You’ve been back for all of five minutes and it’s all— just—  _ chaos. _ ”

“You’re just mad because you embarrassed yourself in front of everyone,” he points out in a mock-whisper. Her lips twitch ever so slightly at that, as if holding back on a smile, and he’s reaching out before he can help himself, wiping at her cheek with his thumb.

She gives a sharp intake of breath at that, the sound making him falter. It’s only then that he registers their proximity, the fact that she’s close enough that he can feel her breath against his jaw.

Bellamy should pull back. Move.  _ Something. _ But he can’t seem to bring himself to look away, and he thinks he hears her release another deep, shuddering breath before she closes her eyes, leaning into his touch, and the sight of it just makes him  _ ache  _ with something he wishes he could put into words.

“Clarke?”

She jerks back, nearly falling onto her haunches before she rights herself, and he has to resist the urge to grab onto her arm to steady her. “Zeke?”

The figure hovering over them gives a small shrug, and Bellamy finds himself taking him in with a twinge of apprehension. There’s something about the way his gaze rake over Clarke that makes him feel a little uneasy. Annoyed, almost, and he has to work to quash that feeling back down. “Madi’s looking for you.”

“Oh,” she says, getting to her feet, wiping at her face surreptitiously. “I better go see what it’s about. Could you take over?”

“Sure.”

She shoots him an apologetic look, biting her lip, but he waves her off anyway, jerking his head in a way that means to say he’s fine. A beat, her hesitation clear. Then, she seems to come to a decision, giving him a quick nod before she takes off.

“Sorry,” Zeke says, and he’s pretty sure it’s  _ not  _ his imagination that the guy doesn’t sound sorry at all _.  _ “Was I interrupting?”

“Nope,” he finally brings himself to say, unearthing a pile of rocks with a well-aimed kick and sending them scattering through the dirt. “Not at all.”

 

+

Except somehow, interrupting is  _ all _ Zeke does over the next few weeks.

He’s always hanging around Clarke, for one, and constantly cropping up at the most inopportune moments. Like when they’re having breakfast out in the woods, with her thigh pressed up against his and her laugh soft against his ear. Or when she takes him to the secluded lake a few miles out to teach him how to fish. Or even when they’re with the others dismantling the pod, taking it apart for useful parts.

It’s  _ obvious  _ and annoying and above all, inconvenient. Sure, it’s been six years, but he and Clarke have always been a unit of sorts. The thought of someone else— someone he actively  _ dislikes _ — trying to fit himself into their space chafes against him.

“Relax tiger,” Madi smirks, handing him a skewer of charred, unidentifiable meat. “She still likes you best, you know.”

He snaps out of his reverie, scowling. From here, he can just make out Clarke standing by the bonfire, lost in animated conversation with he-who-must-not-be-named. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Course not,” Madi says, sounding way too reasonable for a thirteen-year-old. “That’s why you’re staring at Zeke like you’re hoping he’ll spontaneously combust.”

“Can he do that?”

“You wish.”

“Yeah, I’ll get on that the next time I see those shooting stars again,” he grumbles, huffing. That earns him a strange look on her part, almost curious, so he hastens to add, “Not that— shit. That happened before all this  _ radiation _ , so. The likelihood of it happening again isn’t—” he stops, running a palm over his face. Yeah, he’s  _ really _ not looking forward to explaining it: the radio, and the culling, and the demons that still plague his dreams, even now.

She nudges at his knee with hers, the motion surprisingly companionable. “You’re talking about the flares.”

He can feel himself tense, swallowing hard. “You know about that?”

“Clarke told me about it,” she says. “She asked you if it was possible to wish on this kind of shooting star, and you told her that you wouldn’t even know what to wish for anyway.”

There’s a lump growing in his throat that’s making it hard to speak, but he manages somehow. “ _ Jesus _ , she remembered that?”

“Clarke remembers  _ everything _ about you,” Madi points out, matter-of-fact. “I keep telling you. You’re her favorite.” 

He can’t help chancing a quick peek over her at that, heat rushing to his cheeks at the realization that she’s looking at him, too. Caught out, he manages a challenging head tilt, mouths,  _ what are you looking at?  _ over at her.

Her cheeks are tinged with pink, he can’t help but notice, and for a split second, he thinks she might say  _ you.  _ But then Zeke is tapping at her shoulder once more, and then she’s moving, following him back out to the bunker site.

“Princess,” he greets, shivering slightly when he feels her fingers grazing past his shoulder.  

“Bellamy,” she says, sounding almost breathless. Then, so low he nearly misses it, “Your fly’s unzipped, by the way.”

He sputters, hands darting to his belt as she laughs, bright and lilting and  _ happy;  _ the sound ringing in his ears even after she disappears through the trees.

“See?” Madi says after, stupidly smug. “Favorite.”

He rolls his eyes, reaching over to ruffle her hair lightly. “Yeah, yeah. Eat your dinner, kid.”

(Still, he can’t seem to stop smiling.)

  
  


+

They uncover what looks like the edge of one of the bunker doors after days of digging, so naturally, that calls for a celebration.

“This is a waste of resources,” he points out, the next time Clarke comes up to him. There’s a smile twitching at the edge of her lips, though, eyes bright, and he’ll admit that it’s a good look on her. (Almost everything is when it comes to her, really. He learned this the hard way.) “They do realize that it’s like, a square inch worth of door, right?”

“It’s a square inch more than they expected,” she teases, nudging lightly at his ribs, and he tries not to think about even the smallest of contact seems to send a spark of warmth right through him. “C’mon, Bellamy. Since when have you been opposed to fun?”

He has to bite the inside of his cheek to taper his smile at that, shaking his head. “Don’t you start, princess.”

“So, I  _ shouldn’t  _ do whatever the hell I want?” she asks, tilting her chin over at him questioningly. It’s playful— flirty _ ,  _ almost— but it’s probably just wishful thinking on his part. Shrugging, he opens his mouth, a smart-assed retort already falling off his lips just as she blurts out, “Because I was thinking about asking you for a dance.”

It’s highly likely that he’s misheard her— considering the obnoxiously loud drumming in the background— but her cheeks are pink and she’s studiously avoiding his gaze _and_ he thinks there’s something suspiciously akin to hope blooming in his chest.

His grin comes unbidden, “You  _ want _ to dance with me?”

She glances up at him, teeth snagging at her bottom lip in a surprisingly nervous gesture. “Whatever the hell I want, right?”

He laughs, the sound hoarser than he’ll care to admit. “Whatever the hell you want.”

“Good,” she murmurs, reaching over to twine her fingers between his. “And maybe, after that, we can—”

The rest of it is lost in the sudden crash to their right, a figure pushing through the bramble and trees. “Clarke?”

He’s never been much of a believer, but Bellamy’s pretty sure that his show of restraint as Zeke comes into view is some sort of divine intervention. “Bellamy,” he greets, managing a cursory nod before he turns to face Clarke once more, “I need to talk to you. In private.”

“I’m in the middle of something.”

“It’s  _ important, _ ” he stresses, lowering his voice. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

That pulls an impatient noise out of her, which he can’t help but feel strangely vindicated by. “I’m really—”

“Five minutes, I swear.”

She gives an exasperated huff, her expression quickly morphing into an apologetic one when she glances over at him. “I’m sorry, just— let me settle this? It won’t take long, and I’ll—”

“I’ll be here,” he cuts in, and he’s not sure what possesses him to do it, but the next thing he knows he’s leaning over, pressing a kiss in the space between her brows. It feels, simultaneously, like the biggest fuck-you possible to Zeke as it is a grand gesture. “See you in a bit.”

Her cheeks are mottled red when he pulls away, eyes unnaturally bright. “Okay,” she mumbles, and he tries not to laugh when she nearly walks into a tree following Zeke back out into the open. (It’s  _ nice _ to think that she’s just as affected by him as he is to her.)

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait for too long. He’s only about two pages into his tattered copy of  _ The Iliad  _ when he hears the sound of footfalls, growing in volume right before he spots her, ducking through the trees and heading towards him.

“Hey,” he says, marking the page with the flick of his thumb before putting it away. Then, mostly because he can’t help himself, “Where’s your little shadow?”

She narrows her eyes over at him, huffing. “You mean Zeke?”

“You  _ named  _ your shadow?”

“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re jealous,” she says, beaming with false cheer as she flops down onto the ground next to him. Like this, she’s close enough that he can feel strands of her hair tickling at the side of his neck, his jaw. When she speaks again, it’s so soft, he has to strain to hear it. “It’s new, for you.”

“It is,” he admits, wetting his lips. “And it isn’t. Back then, there just wasn’t— time, you know? I knew I loved you but I could never sit down and process it. Or act on it, and it’s just,” he pauses, taking a deep, bracing breath. “I don’t know which is worse,” he says, managing a shaky laugh, “spending six years regretting it, or spending a single moment now  _ not  _ doing anything about it.” 

He senses her smile, more than anything, her fingers sliding under his chin and tipping it to face her. “The latter,” she tells him, and then she’s kissing him, soft and sweet and sure, and he thinks his heart might fucking  _ combust _ from it all— the way she laughs against his mouth and the slide of her fingers against his shoulders and just  _ Clarke. _

“Took you long enough,” she murmurs when they break apart, just far away enough that he can still feel her breath warming his face, her hand on his cheek. “You’re not going to take another six years for that drink and dance you owe me, are you?”

He can’t help it, he laughs; leaning forward to kiss her once more. “Don’t count on it, princess.” 

**Author's Note:**

> #wakemeupwhenmarchishere


End file.
